Look To The Western Sky
by movieholic
Summary: "We don't know what's happening over there."
1. Chapter 1

**Thanks to my first Beta, shenshen1977.  
**

**Warnings: Language, Violence  
**

* * *

**Pre-Mission,**

**The Helicarrier**

* * *

No amount of training, of the day-in-day-out fisticuffs, of scaling tall buildings or running marathons would have ever prepared Clint Barton for his latest mission. It was simple enough, which should have sent alarm bells ringing in the archer's mind as soon as he was briefed on it. He was tasked for a surveillance operation, which required a skill in stealth and an ability to see all. That had Clint "Hawkeye" Barton written all over it.

However, Barton was clearly unhappy with the task. A surveillance op that any other S.H.I.E.L.D. agent could do in their sleep? It was all he could do to keep a scowl off his face, and a scoff in check. Instead, he just crossed his arms and clenched his teeth so hard his jaw developed a tic.

There was only one reason that stuck in Barton's mind as to why he was chosen to do this job, and it may not have even been the correct one. Fury was, well, furious. Not at his resident archer, per se, but in general. Between struggling to keep tabs on his Avengers and his S.H.I.E.L.D. agents, and reporting to the Council, things eventually took their toll on the director and it was only a matter of time before he snapped. And by "snapping" he just acted irrational, only to the point of wanting to make someone mildly suffer. Someone that could get on his nerves easily, someone that occasionally had authority issues, someone that (although he was underneath the influence of a dark magic) partook in the death of several good men and women. Someone like Barton.

By the time Clint was finally able to escape the meeting room, the veins in his neck were standing out as far as the ones on his muscled arms. Without a backward glance, he stalked down the halls of the craft, making a beeline for his personal quarters. With each step, his black combat boots thudded against the metallic flooring, reverberating up and down the way. No one bothered to give him a second glance when they saw him passing, too afraid to make eye contact with the trained mercenary.

Ten minutes later, Barton threw open the door to his room and slammed it shut behind him. Without the slightest hesitation, he immediately had his bow in his hand and an arrow drawn, ready to fire. Just as he was about to release his hold, the sound of a gun being placed on safe put him at ease. He lowered the weapon and relaxed.

"Tasha," he sighed, placing the arrow into his back-quiver and collapsing the bow.

"Sorry," she replied softly, putting her weapon back into her hip holster. "Can never be too careful."

Clint didn't respond, but instead carefully placed his bow onto the bed and pulled the quiver off. After he had placed it next to his preferred choice of weaponry, he turned and sat on the edge of the bed. He didn't have to say a word, but Natasha could read the invitation on his expressionless face. They knew each other that well.

So, she walked over and sat beside him, leaving barely an inch between their bodies.

"New mission?" she asked, without facing him.

"Yeah," he replied, also looking straight ahead.

"How long?"

"Undetermined."

"Where?"

"Somalia."

"When?"

"Day after tomorrow."

She asked and he answered, both with clipped professionalism in their tones.

Finally, she half-turned to face him and lowered her gaze to his lips. "Solo?"

The pink flesh barely twitched, and to a lesser agent, it would have gone unnoticed. However, she caught it and looked away with a heavy sigh. "Damn him," she cursed softly.

"Hey," Clint nudged her arm with his, a small smile on his face. "I'll be fine, okay? It's not my first rodeo."

"It is without me, since-"

Since Loki. Since the Chitauri. Since he'd been compromised.

He didn't bother to respond, instead looking down at his hands. An archer's hands. Strong, calloused, and capable of both destroying and rebuilding. "Natasha," he breathed, flexing his fingers. "Just," he looked up sharply, his eyes flashing with emotion, "Trust me, okay?"

She slowly reached out and fully splayed her hand out on his face. He leaned into her touch, and she gently pulled her hand down, effectively caressing his handsome visage. When she got to his lips, he parted them and closed his eyes. She pulled her hand away, and he opened his eyes to fully look at her.

"I always trust you."

There was a beat of silence before Clint placed his hand on her knee and shook it. "C'mon, let's go crash a sparring session."

A genuine smile graced her face, and she stood.

"I thought you'd never ask."

* * *

Several hours later, Barton let the torrid spray of water pound unrelentingly against his aching back. He placed his hands shoulder-width apart against the wall, and hung his head underneath the nozzle. A small groan of pain and relief escaped his lips.

Barton hadn't realized how upset Natasha really was at the idea of him going solo until they took to the mat. She did not let up the entire session. Had he not been able to detect the minute changes to her movements, barely noticeable ways she held back from doing serious damage, he would've thought she was trying to really take him out of the game.

As it was, he decided to roll with the punches. Literally. He decided to give back as good as he got, and allowed his pent-up frustrations to dictate his movements.

He wasn't happy about the operation. He wasn't happy about going alone. And he was especially unhappy that Natasha was upset about it as well. They were partners, and they looked out for one another. When one of them was angry or depressed or anxious, the other felt it as well. They fed off of each other, as good partners always did.

With a heavy sigh, Clint turned the shower off. He grabbed a towel, and began drying his dripping hair before moving down to the rest of his body. When he felt dry enough that he wouldn't soak the floor, he stepped out and hung the towel back up. Stepping into a pair of black boxer briefs, he leaned over the bathroom sink and stared into the foggy mirror. He reached up and rubbed his hand across the glass. Droplets of water strayed into the area he tried to wipe, but he had enough of a clear view of himself that he didn't care.

He ran a hand over his jaw, feeling the beginning of stubble. With his pores open from the steam, he decided he couldn't go wrong with a quick shave. Reaching underneath the sink, he pulled out shaving cream and a razor. Inspecting the dull blade, he reached under again and pulled out a new one. As he reached underneath for a third time, he felt the sharp prick of a blade being held up against his throat and a warm presence behind him.

"You should really beef up your security," a voice drawled in his ear.

"Why?" he replied, glancing up into the mirror from his crouched position to look into the eyes of his partner. "You're the only one who ever breaks in here."

She shrugged, and tossed the blade onto the counter. "True."

Rolling his eyes, Clint began to stand up, masking the twinges of pain in his legs and back. He reached and tenderly touched his neck, where a trickle of blood was already drying. He cocked an eyebrow into the glass, where she could clearly see his face.

"I was," she trailed off, and looked away. "Upset."

"I know," he replied, and turned his body to face her. He folded his arms across his bare chest and leaned against the counter. "I also know that you're scared."

She looked up sharply, a glare in her eyes.

"C'mon, Tash, it's just us." He waved a hand in the air before resuming his position. "No one else is here. Talk to me."

Natasha walked out of the bathroom, and Clint pursed his lips together and sighed loudly. He followed her, ducking when she threw his black cargo pants at his face.

Catching them easily, he started to tug them on just as she threw a black t-shirt. He glared as he finally managed to get his pants on, and snatched the shirt off the floor. As he put it on with jerky, annoyed movements, he said, "You're overreacting."

Clint knew it was the wrong thing to say to a woman, especially if that woman was Black Widow. He found himself on his back, staring up at the ceiling, the very next second. He was too tired to struggle, and knew she wasn't going to seriously harm him, so he just relaxed underneath her weight and looked up expectantly. "Well, now that you've got my attention, spit it out."

She furrowed her brow, and stared down at him. "Of course I'm scared, moron."

"We've been on separate missions before," he pointed out.

"They were different."

"How?"

He watched as her mouth worked open and closed, watched as she struggled to formulate some sort of coherent sentence, and it dawned on him what the real problem was. "You're not scared because of what the mission entails, or that you're not going with me...You think things are different now, don't you?" Her eyes fluttered. "You're not scared for me...You're scared of your feelings for me."

Without a word, she stood up, and he took a grateful breath he didn't realize he was struggling to get. She crawled onto his bed, and it was only then he noticed she was wearing gray sweatpants and a white tank-top. Sitting with her back against the headboard, a pillow cushioning her sore back, she stretched out her legs and folded her arms.

Slow in getting to his feet, Clint took the moment to think over what just happened. She practically admitted to having feelings for him without admitting to it. He knew they were close, so close that they could read each other's movements and expressions as if the other's thoughts and actions were their own. But he didn't realize they were this close.

He climbed on the bed and sat next to her, their thighs touching. He looked at her askance, trying to think of something, anything to say to her but nothing would come to mind. Instead, he mimicked her position and stared straight ahead. Finally, he hesitatingly looked over and saw her worrying her bottom lip.

"Tasha-"

"Don't," she cut him off. She turned her face and looked at him, really looked at him, and shook her head. "Don't...please." Her voice broke off and she looked away again.

"Hey," he said, his voice gravelly and he couldn't figure out why. "Don't cut me off, Natasha. Don't do that."

"Clint," she sighed. "I've been compromised."

"That makes two of us," he replied, and when she met his eyes accusingly, he held her stare. He cleared his throat, and whatever he saw in her eyes vanished. "Look-"

"It's late. I should go."

She didn't move, and he knew she wasn't going to. So, he stood up and crossed the small room, flicking the switch in order to bathe them in darkness. Giving himself a moment to adjust, he made his way back and stopped. Where she was at first sitting on the left side of the bed, she was now on the right. She was also underneath the comforter, lying on her side. He climbed on the left side of the bed, and smiled. Natasha knew he was left-handed, and if there was ever an occasion in where he would need to suddenly reach out and grab a knife from the drawer, it was easier for him to do so on that side. He always slept on his back for that reason.

They lay there, listening to each other breathing, and just enjoying the company of another human being. Clint knew that exactly one hour and fifteen minutes later Natasha snuggled a little closer, wrapped her arm around his stomach and placed her face into the crook of his neck. Five minutes after that, her breathing evened out and she finally fell asleep.

He wrapped his right arm around her body, closed his eyes, and rested his head on the top of her red tresses. He breathed in deep, and drifted off to sleep.

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**TBC...**

**Please Review.**


	2. Chapter 2

**Pre-Mission,**

**Stark Tower**

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Fury, having relaxed somewhat since the mission brief, had decided to allow his expert marksman a day of leisure. Granted, Barton was under strict orders (and an underlying death threat) to study his notes on the long flight to Africa the following day. The younger agent readily agreed to the terms, and now found himself at Stark's tower. He was sitting on the pebbled rooftop, legs dangling over the side of the building, serenely studying the city below.

Of all the places the agent could have chosen, he couldn't understand why he chose Stark's tower. However, it didn't take too long for the real reason to finally hit him. He enjoyed the company of others, just as much as he loved to be alone. The Avengers, this rag-tag team of misfits just wanting to fit in and do some good, they were his family. Clint recalled a time, back in his circus days, where he could have said the same thing. Just not as fondly, he supposed.

His peaceful moment was interrupted by two voices. He quickly identified them as Tony and Natasha. They seemed to be arguing, which was not all too surprising. He hopped to his feet, and turned towards the door, just as the two burst out and walked over to him.

"Alright, Barton, did you really think you could get away with eating all of my-"

"Stark, you're being ridiculous!"

"It's my favorite brand," he argued, and jabbed a finger at Clint. "He didn't even ask!"

"What did I do again?" Clint asked, furrowing his brow.

"You ate all of my Creamy Jif." Stark crossed his arms and frowned. "Do you deny it?"

Blinking slowly, Clint nodded.

"I can smell your peanut butter lies from here, Barton." Tony narrowed his eyes at the younger man. He tried to stare down the assassin, but Clint was the master of showing no emotion.

"Seriously, Tony, stop being immature for a day and let Barton enjoy his time off."

The billionaire whirled to face her. "I'm sorry; I can't be mean to you. It's be kind to animals week."

The redheaded beauty simply smirked.

"By the way, if you ever become a mother, can I have one of the puppies?"

"That's it," Clint growled, taking a step forward.

"Whoa there, Prince of Thieves." Tony backed up and put his palms in the air. "What'd I say?"

"Stark, could you be a little more annoying?" Natasha groused.

"If you truly understood me, you'd let me be annoying."

The trio stood for a moment, the sounds of the city washing over them. Natasha took a deep breath, and hung her head, pinching the bridge of her nose. "Stark, while it is my deepest desire to kill you, social convention dictates that I keep you alive."

"Huh, that's...comforting." You could almost hear another retort at the end of the man's tongue, but Clint took the brief moment of silence to walk away. By the time the other two noticed, he was already inside the tower.

Sidling close to Stark, Natasha leaned forward seductively and breathed in his ear, "Y'know, sometimes I need the one thing only you can provide-"

Wide-eyed, and struggling to form words, Stark managed to wheeze out, "My vast amount of money? Severely good looks? Undeniable charm?"

"No," she drawled. She could almost feel him standing on his tiptoes to lean closer. "Do you want to know what it is?" He nodded vehemently. "Your absence." With a sultry smirk over her shoulder, she walked away and disappeared into the tower as well.

* * *

It was nearing noon, and Clint could almost hear the tell-tale rumbling of his stomach as much as he could feel it. He already knew that Steve had eaten earlier, preferring to eat ahead of everyone else so that no one could watch the amount of food he stuffed into his face. Thor wasn't in the city, much less their realm of the universe, so Clint had no idea if the demigod had eaten or not, and didn't much care. Pepper was last seen walking up to her office, a phone pressed against her ear in one hand and a red apple in the other. Natasha had taken a bowl of grapes and a bottle of water before disappearing elsewhere in the tower. Bruce and Stark were currently in the kitchen, along with Steve, who was looking for a snack in the most nonchalant manner he could pull off.

Clint walked in, and managed to pull out a bowl, milk, and a box of Cheerios before the others even noticed he was in the room.

Banner was saying, "I find television very educating. Every time somebody turns on the set, I go into the other room and read a book."

"Hold the phone, was that a joke? Jesus, Banner, your humor is showing."

Steve looked between the two geniuses, a dubious expression on his face. He caught sight of the archer, and nodded his greeting. "Barton."

"Cap'n." He replied in the same manner, turning back to his meal preparation.

Furrowing his brow, the team leader leaned over the kitchen island where he sat, and surveyed Clint's ministrations. "Is that all you're eating?"

As he poured the milk, Clint cocked a brow and barely looked up. "It's my last day stateside. Let me enjoy it," he added the last part more towards Stark, who appeared to be munching on a peanut butter and jelly sandwich. Feeling the archer's pointed stare, Tony replied, "It was behind a bag of oranges."

Stark looked away to give the others a "What are ya gonna do?" shrug, and perched himself on the edge of the counter, dangling his legs over the side. When he glanced back the agile assassin was sitting, cross-legged, on top of the island. He held the bowl in his hands, and was mechanically spooning cereal into his mouth. He paused when he felt Stark's eyes on him. Blinking sleepily, he looked down at his bowl and then back up again. "What?"

"Can you not do that?"

He slowed his chewing, and asked, "Do what?"

"Sit there."

"You're doing it."

"It's my house."

"Stark, if you're going to be two-faced, at least make one of them pretty," snapped Natasha as she strode into the room, decidedly a little more sweaty than when she left with her snack an hour before.

"For our sake," Barton added dryly.

"Cute," grumbled Tony, taking a large bite of his sandwich.

* * *

Natasha felt the need for a long, cooling shower after the workout she just had. She was frustrated at her seeming inability to open up and talk to the one man she trusted, and more than took it out on her body. She wasn't used to the feelings she had, the ones of happiness and belonging. Especially the other one, the one that she didn't want to speak aloud, even though she knew what it was. That heart fluttering, stomach flipping sensation she got whenever she was around her partner. She refused to label it.

Having placed her bowl into the dishwasher, and refilled her water bottle, she went in search of her partner. He had polished his bowl of cereal off quickly, then disappeared as quietly as he had entered the room. The tower was massive, but there was only a handful of places she could think of Barton being right now, and playing a hunch, she made her way to the gym first.

Her hunch was right. She stood in the door frame, leaning against it, and watched with an appreciative eye as Barton did things with his body that never ceased to amaze Natasha. She knew he was agile and athletic, but whenever he performed his acrobatic moves, she was mesmerized.

Now, Barton was running as fast as he could towards a wall. At the last second, he jumped and ran a few steps up. Pushing himself off the wall with a grunt, he semi-turned so that he was facing the opposite direction of the wall, and grabbed the first set of gymnastic bars in an overhand grip. The bar groaned and twanged with the sudden weight, but he knew it was built to last. He swung his body back and forth, finally letting go at the peak and grabbing at the next set of bars in front of him, a little higher up.

This time, he chicken-winged the metal rod and pulled himself up until he was sitting on it. When he felt the pressure of the rod in the space behind his knees, he allowed himself to fall backwards. Now, he was hanging upside down like a child at the playground. He did one hundred crunches, his grunting and heavy breathing the only sound echoing in the large room. Finally, he reached up and released his legs before dropping down onto the mat. As soon as he hit, he dropped into the pushup position and did one hundred of those.

Once finished, he pulled his legs in so that he was in a crouching position, then pitched forward into a roll. At the end of that, he broke out into a run and repeated the entire process again on the wall opposite where he started off.

Natasha watched as he performed this made-up circuit two more times. At the end of the last round, he grabbed a towel off a bench, and dabbed it against his neck as he made his way over to her. "Enjoy the show?"

She smiled, and he ducked his head to hide his.

"Pretty impressive," she said, her voice impassive.

He shrugged, and tossed the towel over his shoulder. "I know." He ran a hand through his sweat soaked hair, and looked down at her. She looked as tired as he felt.

"You need to get some more sleep. You can barely function," she finally said, tearing her eyes away from the darkness underneath his eyes.

"Says who?" he scoffed, pulling away just slightly.

"JARVIS may have mentioned it in passing."

"Hey, I can function just fine, thank you," Barton retorted, both to the AI and his partner.

She leveled him with a blank stare, and he could have sworn he heard the AI clear his nonexistent throat.

"I didn't say I can function well," he amended.

"Yeah, well you're going to have to this time around. I won't be there to watch your back," she replied, turning on her heel and walking out. He followed closely behind.

"You're not starting this again, are you?" Clint furrowed his brow as Natasha picked up her speed. "Nat, are you?"

"No," she said over her shoulder, in what could only be defeat in her tone. "I'm just saying, you're not going on vacation-"

Just as she made it to the elevator doors, his fingerless-gloved hand slammed by her face, against the panel. "Damn it, Natasha," he breathed out heavily. She was facing the closed doors, her eyes wide. She could feel the heat rolling off his body, so close to being pressed against hers.

She watched as he retracted his hand from the panel, and felt it being placed on her elbow more than saw it. He slowly tugged until she turned, not wanting to force her into a position she didn't want to be in. Everyone knew by now that you didn't force the Black Widow into a position she didn't want to be in.

Although her body faced him, her eyes didn't meet his. He didn't like it. The Widow wasn't scared or nervous or worried about anything, unless it came to him. And he hated it. She wasn't supposed to feel that way about him or for him. Ever.

"Clint," she whispered, slowly lifting her head.

No other words passed between the two, and neither did any thoughts as his head dipped down and her's tilted up. All they knew was that their lips were meeting, and Sweet Jesus it was right, and wrong, and all things in between. They needed to stop, but they couldn't stop, and then her back was being pressed against the cool metal doors and his furnace-like body was being tightly pressed to her front, as if he was trying to be one with her, trying to get underneath her skin. Their tongues were clashing, and their teeth clicking against the other's, and they were both moaning and grunting and suddenly the doors opened behind her, and she fell in and they were pulled apart.

She could still feel his fingers running through her hair as they somehow managed to caress her face simultaneously, but now she was looking down at the floor and he was biting his lip and staring at the ceiling, hands on his hips.

The doors closed, and it was the last time she saw him.

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**TBC...**

**Please Review.  
**


	3. Chapter 3

**Day One,**

**Aboard Cargo Plane**

* * *

It took a lot to render Clint Barton completely off balance, but it seemed whenever it did happen, his partner was the cause of it. This time it was no different. His brain was slowly starting to come back online after the major reboot he just experienced, when his phone vibrated in his pocket almost violently. Just as he was about to ignore it, the ID caught his eye and he couldn't decide if he wanted to throw the phone or crush it in his deathly grip. Clearing his throat, he took a deep breath before answering.

"Barton."

An hour later, Clint was on board a military cargo plane with nothing more than his bow and quiver, and the clothes on his back. Plus the assortment of knives he kept sheathed on his person, but he considered those to be a part of his clothing ensemble.

He put his head back against the bulkhead, his body swaying violently back and forth from the turbulence. "I see Fury spared no expense for this mission," he muttered underneath his breath.

"I _heard_ that," came the dry response through a comm link in his ear.

"I know, sir," Clint replied.

Knowing full well he was in for a long flight, and that he had promised to study the limited files he had, Barton pulled out three folders from a container beside him. He splayed them out on top of a makeshift table, and picked up the first one labeled "Abel, Heinrich." He skimmed through the notes, and by the time he was through he knew the basics of Heinrich's life.

Heinrich Abel was born in England, but raised in Germany during the 1960's. It was apparent that he had a relative involved in HYDRA during the whole First Avenger debacle, and that Heinrich wanted a piece of whatever action they had going in the years afterward. According to the limited notes, he was attempting to ship any parts, plans, and formulas he could scrounge up to a base on the outskirts of Somalia.

The file went on to talk about his life, and his connections, but Barton wasn't interested. He snatched the second file, and flipped it open. This one was labeled "Exley, Guy." Another Englishman. Again, the file contained a detailed history of Guy's life, and his connections to the HYDRA project and Heinrich Abel. These were the two key men Barton needed to look out for during his operation.

With a satisfied sigh, he tucked those two folders back into the container and picked up the third and last file. This one was much thicker, and didn't have a label, aside from a large "CONFIDENTIAL" stamp across the front. Opening this, loose pictures fell out and spilled into his lap. He looked through those carefully, studying the weapons and people and layout of the surrounding area in them. There was more information about HYDRA and their mission, and the last few pages held a list of things to make sure he took note of.

Clint rolled his eyes and shut the folder. So, he was essentially going in blind, if the lack of any real information was anything to go by. Then again, it was a surveillance operation. He was supposed to note the comings-and-goings of people, the size and amount of shipments, and what kind of activities they got up to on the base.

"Well," he sighed, "This is going to suck."

He reached above his head and grabbed the headset that he had placed there earlier, in case he needed to communicate with the pilots and didn't feel like moving. With them on, he cleared his throat and asked, "Anybody got the time in there?"

There was a pause, then some static before one of them replied, "It's a little past 1400, sir."

"ETA?"

There was the same static, then, "A little over nineteen hours, sir."

"Thanks. Out." He pulled the headset off and hung them back up. Clint looked around the cargo bay, and shook his head. Even if he cleaned his weapons, thoroughly and taking his time, that would still leave him several hours with nothing to do. He could sleep as well, but the agent required little sleep to feel functional.

"_You need to get some more sleep. You can barely function."_

The voice broke through his train of thought, and he felt his jaw lock up and his body tense. It was as if she just spoke to him right then and there.

"_Yeah, well you're going to have to this time around. I won't be there to watch your back."_

The memory was so real, so fresh, it was as if it happened a minute ago and not a few hours. Clint reached up and gingerly touched his lips. He could have sworn he could still feel hers against his, still taste the grapes and the lipstick. His tender touch turned into a face rub, and he let out a long, deep breath.

He wondered if she would go looking for him whenever she finished mulling it over, overanalyzing everything about it, trying to put it into a neat little box and compartmentalizing her emotions. He knew that was what she was probably doing, because he was doing it too. He desperately wanted to talk to her, and he could have called her right then, but he felt like it was a conversation you had with someone face to face. Not while she was in Manhattan, and he was flying over the ocean for a mission in Somalia.

Sort of. Clint pulled out the folder containing the pictures, and pulled them out. After rereading the notes, he realized that the base was on the border of the country. The pictures revealed poorly built buildings that didn't exceed four stories on the taller ones. They were situated in a rough square in the desert, the tallest structure was in the middle flanked by a one-story building to its left. About a football field's distance away from the smaller one, there was another. It was about two stories tall, with a one-story building directly behind it. That one looked to be the control room for the security and guards, judging from the pictures. It was barely five feet away from the fence surrounding the perimeter.

Directly across from the two-story architecture, a little less than ninety yards, there were another two buildings. Each was three stories tall, at least twenty feet in between the two. That appeared to be it. There did seem to be a building in construction next to the tallest, on the right side, but it wasn't close to being finished when the pictures were taken. That was only a week ago.

He knew there were at least six guards posted around the perimeter at all times, four at each corner and two rovers. Inside the control room, he couldn't tell. The small room could fit anywhere from two to five comfortably. There also wasn't much he could do for inside the other buildings, but unless he planned to breach the compound, he wasn't too worried.

Clint studied the pictures for the surrounding environment. From what he could recall of his last mission in Africa, it had been a surprisingly humid and an extremely hot form of Hell. He knew that an agent had packed him a backpack full of the gear he'd need, and that reinforcements would arrive at least once a week, unless he said otherwise via the burn phone he was given.

Tossing the folder to the side once again, Clint stood and stretched. He removed the quiver from his back and carefully placed it on top of the table. His bow was already off to the side, in reach. He strode across the cargo bay and plucked the black pack off the ground and the navy blue duffel next to it, and walked back to his seat. He placed the pack in between his feet, and unzipped it. The duffel went next to him on the bench, and he opened that as well. He reached in and pulled out a black utility belt. He could tell it was modified to fit the things he would need. Next, he pulled out a plastic canteen, a Gerber utility knife, a small flashlight with one pack of extra batteries, and a black handkerchief. As he pulled them out, he began to place them on the belt, setting aside the handkerchief. There was a small pair of binoculars, with a post-it note attached reading, "Doubt you'll need these, Hawkeye." He smirked and placed them on the belt. Although he already had his sunglasses, he pulled out the clear goggles and placed them on the belt as well.

With his belt complete to his satisfaction, he placed it aside and reached into the duffel again. He pulled out a poncho, tan on one side and reversible to black on the other. Clint figured it wouldn't rain, but it would help to block out the rays of the sun without adding too much weight and also provide just a little warmth during the night. He rerolled it as tightly as he could, and shoved it as far down as it would go into the backpack at his feet. There was another canteen, plus three sets of clothing. One set was a pair similar to what he wore now, a black t-shirt and cargo pants. The other two sets were the same, but khaki in color. He also had several pairs of socks. Those he appreciatively threw in the bag as well.

There was an assortment of medical things, and healthy granola bars and the like, which he added too with a small grumble. Aside from a few composition notebooks and an assortment of cheap pens, there didn't seem to be much else in the duffel. He reached in and rummaged around, making sure he didn't miss anything, when his hand touched something small. He held it between two fingers and pulled it out, a soft smile on his face when he recognized what it was.

It was an earring, a beautiful chandelier one, made of real diamonds. Natasha had worn them once, during an undercover mission. She was seducing the target, enjoying an expensive wine and making the room hers. He was in the air vents, lying on his stomach with barely enough room to breathe properly, grumbling about how next time he would be seducing the rich guy. Afterward, when all was said and done, she tore the earrings off in an effort to feel like herself again.

Clint closed his hand around the earring, feeling the sharp ends prick his palm, and then decided to place it into his pocket. He didn't know why, to feel closer to home he supposed, but he didn't want to dwell on what the Hell he meant by thinking that.

He grabbed the headset and asked, "How long now?"

The static seemed louder this time, and Clint realized that the pilot was laughing in his mic. "It's gonna be a _long _flight if you're already asking me that, sir."

"So? How long?"

Static. "About eighteen hours, sir."

"Son of-" he cut himself off and finished the curse in his head. "Thanks," he ground out. "Out."

He took the now empty duffel and tossed it across the way, gently shoving aside the backpack with a sweeping motion of his foot. He leaned over to the side to close it, and then reached for his bow and quiver. He figured he might as well clean and polish them up before taking a nap. Or sitting and staring at nothing as he counted down the seconds until they arrived to their destination.

He realized he still had his headset on. "Are you sure-"

"Still eighteen hours, sir. Sit back and relax."

Clint tore off the set.

* * *

**TBC...**

**Please Review.  
**


	4. Chapter 4

**Day Two,**

**Outskirts of Somalia**

* * *

Although they touched down at ten in the morning, it wasn't till nearly six that evening when Barton stepped off the carrier and into Somalia. He didn't want to risk striding into the country in broad daylight, and had used the downtime to rest from jet lag. With a mock-salute farewell to the pilots, he slung his pack over his shoulder, strapped his quiver on his back and had his collapsed bow in hand as he bounded down the ramp, wincing as the heat hit him. It was cooler than how it could have been during the day, but it was still significantly hotter than he was accustomed to. Even for being a boy out of Iowa.

He was dropped off a few miles away from where he would camp. In no hurry, he set a good pace and trudged through the sand, glad he decided to tuck his pants into his boots.

It wasn't long before he finally came to where he was supposed to stay. There was a pup tent already set up for him, nearly hidden in the surrounding shrubbery. Beside it were two water tanks. It wasn't much of a hideout, and if someone wanted to find it, they would. However, Barton wasn't too concerned with people passing by.

He unzipped the front and poked his head in. Clint wasn't a tall man, but even he felt like a giant in the tight enclosure. There was barely enough room for him, much less his equipment. So long as he kept everything together and didn't make a mess, he was sure it would work out fine. There was a small pillow at the other end, but upon closer inspection Clint was pretty sure it was more of a burlap sack stuffed with feathers. In fact, that was exactly what it was.

Frowning, the agent sat in the middle of the small tent, and scratched the top of his head. With a deep inhale, he leaned forward and snagged his utility belt, quiver, bow, and half of a granola bar. With his belt on, and quiver resting on his back comfortably, he also grabbed a notebook and pen. He crawled out of the tent and set off in the direction of the base at a semi-crouched run. When he reached the edge, he immediately got onto his stomach and scanned the area.

It appeared the pictures were accurate of the layout, but didn't do the buildings justice in showing just how poorly built they really were. Clint was sure that if there had been any wind, they would all topple forward like a house of cards.

He could already feel the sweat coating his skin, and gathering at the small of his back. It mixed with the dirt, and made a muddy concoction that covered his body. He ignored it, and made a note in the book of the time of his arrival. Then he did what he was tasked to do: survey.

Propped up on his elbows, calloused and rough from years of doing similar things, he felt the bite of dirt and rocks, but ignored them as easily as he did the flying bugs that bit at his face. He maneuvered himself so that his right elbow supported most of his weight as he reached down to his belt with his left, fumbling with one of the pouches until he was able to pop it open and pull out the granola bar he was seeking.

Clint popped the chewy treat into his mouth, as he shifted the weight to his left elbow so that he could once again reach down and snatch his binoculars. Settled back into a more comfortable position, he chewed methodically as he brought the binocs to his face and scanned the visible entrances of each building. There didn't appear to be much activity going on, and he had a bad feeling that each night would be just as boring as this.

Just as the thought hit him, out of his peripheral vision he caught sight of dirt and sand being kicked up in the far distance. "Hold up. What's this?" he mumbled to himself, shifting his position slightly so that the belt's pouches didn't dig so deeply into his abdomen. With his right hand still holding up the binoculars, he reached over and snagged the book and pen. He continued to look down the scope, jotting down everything he could make out in his shorthand. "Land Rover. 1983-84. Green." He watched as the old vehicle bounced up and down, steadily coming closer to the base.

The car stopped outside the gates, and after a brief check in, they were let through. It stopped outside the four-story building, and the occupants stepped out, illuminated by the lights on base more than the dwindling sun. Clint focused on their faces, committing each one to memory. There was only one that he recognized from his files: Guy Exley.

"Well, hello there, Mr. Exley," Barton muttered, his tongue swiping over his teeth for any particles of granola he may have missed. "What's a big man like you doing down here?"

As he watched from his perch, just shy over three miles away, he continued to furiously write in his notebook. He watched as Exley and the other two men exchanged words before the Englishman broke off and entered the building, leaving the other two by the car.

Suddenly, the agent was frustrated. He was used to being patient and watching from a distance; he knew how to do it and he was damn good at it. But if this was all he was going to get out of his stay, then there was no purpose. What could he possibly gain just from watching at this distance? Faces, yes, but no names. Vehicle make and types, but what use would that be? If they brought shipments in or out, he'd be able to note it, but he wouldn't be allowed to stop it. What if they made something? What if they succeeded in creating a weapon of mass destruction, and shipped it out? Was he only to note it in his $2.99 notebook?

Chewing on his bottom lip, the binoculars hanging limply in his hands, he focused on the dirt underneath him. After deep deliberation, Barton made up his mind. If after a few days nothing happened, he would call in. If he saw something that warranted further investigation, he would do just that, despite the warning not to do so.

_It's not called an attitude _problem_ for nothing_, he thought.

* * *

**Day Five**

* * *

It was nearing midnight again, and Barton tore his tired eyes off the nearly deserted base. He put the binoculars off to the side, and unclipped the burn phone off the back of his belt. They didn't give him an ear piece as it would have been pointless without them being in range. Instead they gave him a black, cheap plastic throwaway. "Spared no expense at all," he mumbled before dialing the memorized number, and as soon as he heard the other line pick-up, he said, "This bird's still looking to the western sky." I'm still here.

"Keep flying, Hawk." You're staying there.

They had told him that between 11:55 P.M. and midnight, Barton was to report in with the predetermined message. If he didn't, they would know something was wrong and send in reinforcements. By the third day, Barton was seriously considering missing his check in to see if they would really come and get him. Between the severe boredom and the annoying insects, he was ready to do something drastic.

He snapped the phone shut, and idly scratched at the back of his sunburned neck. The skin was still tender, but it was beginning to peel and itch like crazy. He had almost forgotten to check if sunscreen was included in the array of medical supplies, and was happy to find a massive bottle. However, he had already spent a full day smoldering underneath the sun before the thought even occurred to him.

Checking the phone, he noticed it was a little past twelve now. After a brief sweep of the area, he pushed himself onto his knees, and with a little protest from his sore limbs, onto his feet. He adjusted his quiver and belt with a slight groan, and scratched at his neck again. Taking care to check if he had everything, and that he didn't miss anything on the ground, he turned and made his way back to his little hideout, pocketing the phone as he went.

Once there, Clint crawled into the tent and removed the belt immediately. He tucked it into a corner, not worried about it being in reach because _everything_ was in reach in the small area. He carefully placed his quiver on the left side and his bow on the right. With a hasty gulp from one of the canteens, he made quick work of undoing his boots and tugging off his socks. He removed his shirt and placed it to the side as well, before lying on his back and getting as comfortable as he possibly could with an overly stuffed burlap sack for a pillow and a plastic poncho as a blanket.

It didn't take long before exhaustion finally took over the nuisances, and he drifted off to sleep.

Clint couldn't have been asleep for long when a sound startled him awake. His eyes weren't even fully open before he sat up with his bow in hand, and an arrow nocked. When his sleep deprived brain registered the threat wasn't inside his tent, he made his way out, fully alert by the time his bare feet touched dirt. He scanned the area, his keen sight unable to make out enemy forces of any species.

He angled the bow so that it was pointing down at the ground, but he was fully prepared to bring it up in case of an attack. Tilting his head to the side, he strained his ears in search of whatever noise had startled him awake. The agent was nearly 100% deaf in both ears, and he was sometimes painfully reminded at how his hearing skills lacked in comparison to his other senses when it came to the point where he had to rely on them. Even with hearing aids in, it was still a difficult task. Luckily, the sound was loud enough for him to hear clearly, without having to strain too much.

It sounded like a large vehicle, perhaps a truck. He made note of it, and then ducked into the tent to retrieve his boots and shirt, forgoing the sweat-ladened socks and unable to make time to rifle through the pack for clean ones. After a brief pause, he snatched the belt too. He made quick work of lacing up his boots, and tugged his shirt on as he ran towards the edge of the plateau, belt in hand. Once he made it, he dropped down onto his stomach and ignored the way his shirt rode up and the rocks dug into his skin. His hand darted out to grab the binoculars off the tossed-aside belt.

Bringing them to his face a little quickly, bumping the bridge of his nose, he scanned the area and immediately identified the cause of the noise. It was what he suspected a few minutes ago, a massive truck that was spewing black smoke into the night air. He desperately hoped that they were unloading it, but it didn't take long for him to see that the opposite was true. With a curse, he snapped his head towards what the men loading it up were carrying. He had no idea what they had made, but it was big, it was metal, and it looked dangerous. With another curse, he lowered the scope and hung his head.

This was what he didn't want to happen, no matter how much the boredom ate at him. He didn't want to have to make this decision, whether he breached the base or not, but he swore to himself that he wouldn't allow those weapons to leave his sight. With a sharp exhale, he tossed the binoculars to the side and got to his feet. He relaxed his hold on the bow, and flexed his fingers.

"I'm going in," he said aloud, knowing full well that no one was on the other end of his embedded comm link to hear him, much less stop him.

* * *

**TBC...**

**Please Review.  
**


	5. Chapter 5

**Day Six,**

**Outskirts of Salahly, Somalia  
**

* * *

Making quick work of the rocky terrain, Barton crouched at the base of the plateau he had climbed down from, and silently moved forward in this position. He didn't have much in the way of cover, aside from a stray boulder or so and sparse shrubbery, but he made use of what he could. The truck must've driven close to where he was currently at, for him to have heard it in the first place. The compound itself was at least three miles off, and although his eyes could clearly see it, his ears didn't pick up anything but buzzing.

He didn't know how long they'd been loading or if they were almost done, so he nearly ran the three miles in an attempt to get there as fast as he could. By the time he found himself close enough to the base to be able to make out the faces of the men without binoculars, he had dropped down again behind a massive rock. They were shouting at one another, but he couldn't make out their words. He knew it was another language, though.

Clint scanned the area, looking out for the posted guards and any other potential threats. He saw one at the corner and the rover just as he was coming around. The rover stopped to speak with some of the truck loaders, but it didn't seem hostile. In fact, they seemed to be joking. Finally the guard waved and set off again. With a half-formed plan in his head, Barton made his way to the far right, out of sight of the workers unless they purposely scanned the plains in search of him. The guard at the end, though, would be able to see him clearly if he progressed any further.

If he waited too long, however, the second rover would easily catch him. So, without another thought, he silently rushed forward. The startled guard was opening his mouth to shout out, but the arrow that pierced his throat effectively silenced him before anything escaped his lips. Barton slammed into the fence, cringing at the sound it made, but the guard's spastic body was shielding him for the next few seconds. He held the man's full weight, placing a hand over his mouth to stifle any gurgling sounds. Finally, the man stopped making noise, and Barton slowly eased him to the ground. He tugged the dead weight back, so that the man's feet didn't stick out in plain view for the workers to see.

Whirling around, Barton raised his bow and nocked another arrow, counting in a whisper to three, and releasing the bow just as the second rover made his way around the other end of the base. The arrow slammed into the man's eye, and he crumpled to the ground without knowing what hit him.

He turned again, scanning the area. There were no alarms bells or shouts of surprise; no one noticed him so far. Lowering his bow, he stealthily made his way along the fence, down to where he killed the other guard. He made sure to check to his left more often than his right, knowing full well that anyone could see him through the chain link if they happened to look at the right moment. When he passed the control room, he picked up his pace. By the time he reached the body, he realized too late what he should have noticed much sooner. The guard that was supposed to be posted there wasn't, and that was very wrong.

He felt more than heard the man behind him, and he darted right just as the other tried to smash his head in with a rock. Clint was nearly euphorically happy that the guards on duty were more apt to hide and fight than to alert anyone of an enemy's presence. This made his job a helluva lot easier. However, the dark-skinned man fought a little better than Clint thought he would, and didn't hold back in an attempt to defend himself. He went for a tackle, bringing down the much smaller agent with a grunt. Barton heard something snap in his pocket, but he gave it no further notice once he realized it wasn't any body part of his.

Clint's hands scrabbled on the other man's back, seeking purchase on the cloth in an attempt to literally pull him off. When that didn't work, he brought his knee up into the man's stomach, satisfied when that made him stagger back enough for Barton to get to his feet.

The light from inside the base lit up the man's name-tape, and Clint caught the name Yeboah before the taller man went with a straight jab, which Clint blocked with a simple side-step, his forearms up to deflect any glancing blow. Rather than step to Yeboah's outside, Clint was literally in the man's personal space now, and he quickly turned the move into a semi-spin that had him bringing down his left elbow into the other's throat. As Yeboah hunkered down from the pain, Clint brought his elbow down to the man's temple with speedy accuracy and precision. The guard went down silently, his right foot trembling but otherwise completely still.

He knew that the last standing rover had to be rounding the corner, but if he killed him just as he was doing so, the posted guard would be alerted. And Barton didn't know if that guard was as stupid as this one. So, he slowly backpedaled until he was hidden around the corner, eyes glinting as he peered through the fence. The rover was coming closer and was starting to slow in his step, just noticing the body in the dirt.

As he was reaching up to his shoulder, towards his clipped walkie, Barton released an arrow into the man's heart. Surprised, the man fell to his knees, hands clenching the shaft. The assassin slowly walked over, unsheathing a knife. He felt like a predator stalking his pray, as he went behind the man and swiftly cut his throat.

There was a distant shout, and a truck being revved up, and Clint could have sworn his heart jumped into his throat. Without speaking their language, that shout could have meant anything from "Goodbye!" to "Holy shit, a dead body!" He didn't have time to muse on which it could have been when he saw the truck come into his line of sight, driving off and away from the base. Without a thought, he started running towards the vehicle.

It was starting to fade into the night, so he willed his legs to pump harder. He blew past the first man he killed, jumping over the body without so much as a glance as he ran as fast as he could. Years of training were finally put to use, and he felt some relief as he started to catch up. However, he was still just a man against a machine, and he felt the distance starting to lengthen. With a stifled shout, he put all of his energy and focus into catching that _damned_ truck. He felt dirt and rock give way to sand, and wanted to cry out in pain and frustration.

As if a prayer was answered, the vehicle started to slow down, to the point where it was going to stop and Barton knew he needed to hide. Now. He couldn't hide in the cargo hold, they would catch him easily, so he dropped to his knees and doggy crawled underneath the trailer until his eyes caught on to something that would suffice for his idea. The driver door was opening and closing and the foreign shouts were drawing closer. There was the crackling of static, and Barton could only assume that they had found the bodies and were having the driver check his truck for any hitchhikers, like himself.

So he collapsed his bow and stuck it in his quiver before he reached up and put his acrobatic skills to use. Clint wrapped his calloused hands around the landing gear, which was raised off the ground at least a foot, and inserted his body into the middle opening. It was a very tight fit, and extremely uncomfortable, but Barton bit his tongue and focused on the sting of sweat on his burned neck and dirt in his eyes more so than the pain. He pulled himself through the opening as far as he could without falling out completely then kicked out his left leg, inserting it into a much smaller opening in the far left corner of the landing gear, and he bent it closer, effectively wrapping it around the rusted metal.

With his right, he did the same, in an opening directly underneath his left leg. He crossed his ankles and slowly turned his body sideways. He was now facing the end of the truck on his side, where he could clearly see the legs of the driver, who was peering into the trailer and barking into his walkie. He did the same with his arms, looping them through another two openings. He wrapped them around and clasped his biceps as tight as he could. If he let go at any point, he would fall and presumably become roadkill.

When the driver found nothing out of the ordinary, he trudged back to the front of the truck and got in. Just as he started it up, Barton realized how much of a bad idea this really was. His full weight would be resting on his limbs, really, because his body was suspended in the air. As the vehicle started moving forward, Barton had to squeeze his eyes shut and tighten his grip so hard that he could feel his muscles resisting the urge to rip in half.

Hours were slowly dragging by, and Barton could swear that his ankles were going to snap and the tendons in his wrists were ripping to shreds with each passing second. The sun was beginning to rise at this point, and the heat was unbearable underneath the trailer. All he could think was that there had better be some massive, insane weapons inside or he was going to literally go ballistic.

Sweat steadily dripped off his face, and his bare arms were slick with it. If they didn't stop soon, he was worried that the bumpy ride would soon dislodge him. It was at least another hour before the truck began to noticeable slow down, and Barton finally opened his eyes. He shut them immediately, as a pounding headache made itself known, but he opened them again, slowly. Adjusting to the bright sunlight, he blinked owlishly and scanned his surroundings.

The truck was pulling into a town, by the looks of it. The people barely gave the vehicle a glance as it went down the dirt road. The driver made a right turn, and Clint was able to make out the bombed out buildings and the poor living conditions. However, none of that concerned him more than being visible to everyone. He was hanging right in front of their eyes, and if they took any care to look more than once, they would easily spot him.

It didn't take long before they pulled behind a more modern building, and slowed to a stop. Barton waited with bated breath as the driver climbed out and entered the back, probably to alert the people that he had arrived with the shipment. The nimble assassin wasted no time in dropping like a stone onto the hard ground, with a low grunt he rolled out from underneath and stood. He took a few wobbly steps forward, his ankles protesting adamantly.

A couple of yards in front of him were large trees that begged to be climbed. He took off at a light jog, glancing over each shoulder to see if anyone spotted him, but the building they pulled behind was big enough to block the rest of the town from seeing them.

Barton stumbled every few steps, grinding his teeth to keep from shouting out, and finally had to pause at the bottom of the tree to catch his breath. After a moment, he reached up and grabbed the lowest branch, nearly out of his reach. Using the strength in his arms, he pulled himself up and nearly let go as soon as his full weight was put on his wrists again. But he pushed through the agony and managed to pull himself onto the branch. He climbed up a few more feet, until he felt safely hidden behind the leafy greenery. He rested his back against the trunk, his legs dangling over each side of the thick branch, and closed his eyes again.

Suddenly he remembered the snapping sound he heard during his scuffle with Yeboah, and shoved his hand into his bottom cargo pocket. He already knew what he would find, but he couldn't help the dropping of his heart when he pulled out the shattered pieces of his phone.

"Well," he groaned, "Fuck."

* * *

**TBC...**

**Please Review.  
**


	6. Chapter 6

**Day Six,**

**Countryside of Hargeisa, Somalia**

* * *

The sound of doors being slammed open snapped Barton out of a doze he wasn't aware he fell into. He saw nothing but green foliage, so he carefully leaned forward and pushed aside a branch that was heavy with leaves, his body protesting every movement. However, he now had a clear view of the truck and the men at the back of it.

"Abel," he muttered, eyes narrowing on the German.

Heinrich appeared to be irate, not even focusing on the weapons being unloaded behind him as he shouted in his native language. He didn't seem to be yelling at the workers, but into a phone, once Barton was able to fully come to his senses enough to notice. Probably about the breach, _his_ breach, last night.

As soon as Heinrich disconnected, he turned towards the men and began shouting in the same tongue Barton heard all night. They were sharp words, harsh and gritty, almost Arabic but not quite. While Barton listened, and watched, he scratched at his neck until he realized how dirty his hands were. They were pink and brown and covered in flecks of black paint. He decided he could resist the urge to touch an open burn when his hands looked like the mess they did. They were also stained red with blood, someone else's blood, and suddenly Barton wasn't looking at an archer's hands, but a killer's. He shook his head roughly, welcoming back the pounding headache that had quieted during his light sleep.

He needed a plan, and he needed one now. They were sticking whatever was in the trailer into the building, which was a good sign as far as he was concerned. It meant that they wouldn't be moved again immediately. But Clint didn't know what he was supposed to do. He had already broken all kinds of "don'ts, just don't," and was in no position to take down an undetermined amount of men in a warehouse type building of which he didn't know the layout.

His phone was broken, so at least he knew that when he didn't check in at midnight, they'd scramble a team to retrieve him. Then, just as the first thought hit him, an even bigger one did. They didn't know he had left the base. _He_ didn't even know where he was, and couldn't expect the others to know without first knowing he had even left in the first place. He could only hope that when they did come upon his abandoned tent, he would still be close enough to be able to activate the comm links and contact them. They had to at least be in the same country...right?

Barton scrubbed the stubble on his jaw, barely feeling the prickly hairs on his work worn hands. "Really screwed the pooch on this one," he grumbled to himself.

With a resigned sigh, he picked at some of the dried blood on his hands, just biding his time. It took another half hour before the truck finally rolled out, and Barton watched in curiosity as Heinrich oversaw the workers with a distasteful look on his bland features. Finally, the German entered the building and left the men to it. The minutes ticked by slowly, and Barton was itching to do something.

The men finished, and entered the building as well. Barton scanned the area, and didn't see anybody or anything. It appeared that the building, while made of the same clay-like material as the rest of the town, was only constructed recently. While the others looked bombed and derelict, this one only sported various pock marks from bullets.

Clambering down, Barton swiftly made his way to the massive garage door. It was nearly closed, but there was at least a foot and a half of space at the bottom. He easily crawled underneath, and assumed a squatting position. If there were any people, he couldn't see or hear them. It was a large room, but there were crates upon crates stacked on one another, going back several rows. His first thought was to look up, scanning the catwalk for any life. Spotting none, he noticed a darkened corner above him, where there was a covered vent.

With a satisfied smile, he scrabbled up the side of a crate, ignoring the splinters that bit into his fingers, and leaped from one stack of crates to another. After each hop, he made sure to stay low and check his surroundings. After one last leap, he landed like a feline on the catwalk, nearly having his foot caught on the railing. It was a little higher than he had thought.

The vent was right above his head, too high for him to reach. If he jumped, however, he was able to touch it. With that in mind, he hopped up and down, trying to hit the covering with enough force to knock it in. If it was screwed on, it was done so poorly because after one last hit, it caved in with a small clatter.

Barton once again looked around, and when he saw no one coming to inspect the sound, he ran towards the adjacent wall and kicked off. He pushed to the left, having to turn slightly in the air, and grabbed the edge of the vent with a tight grip. His hands started to slip, so he used the wall as leverage up, kicking his feet. It took a few minutes, but he was finally able to pull himself in. Once he was enclosed, he closed his eyes and allowed his body to relax. The aches and pains made themselves known, but he pushed them to the side and just focused on breathing.

He slowly opened his eyes and stared at the surrounding metal. It was cool to the touch, and felt wonderful against his hot skin. It was a little tight, especially with his elbows scraping the siding with every breath he took, but it was as familiar as being nestled in a high tree. He started low crawling, digging his elbows into the sides and using his boots to help inch forward. It was slow going, but at least he was going.

When he came upon a cover that was embedded on the flooring of the vents, he paused and peered down into the room. It was not unlike a garage in an average-sized house. There was a truck, a teal colored hunk of dirty metal, that sat in the middle. There were a handful of men, toting guns that seemed too large for them to hold, and that was when Barton realized the truth. They weren't men at all, but young boys. The eldest couldn't have been more than fifteen.

Two of them were sitting in the bed of the truck, guns resting in their lap as they played a card game. One was just leaning against the vehicle, his head bobbing up and down in an attempt to stay awake. The oldest was cradling his weapon, looking for all the world like the typical bored teenager, aside from the pink scars outlining his face and the gun in his hands.

Barton knew that Somalia was slowly getting rid of child soldiers, but he didn't have any doubts that there would be residual factions still in the country. He just didn't expect them to be working for Heinrich, and a part of the HYRDA project, no matter how small that part was. Something inside the agent hoped that when everything came down, and he knew everything was going to come crashing down, that it didn't involve these kids. He would kill to protect, and to survive, but the idea of hurting a child that was brainwashed into becoming a soldier caused a physical ache in his chest.

He carefully crawled forward, trying to prevent the covering from falling off and alerting anyone to his hiding place. He had managed to go a good distance before a shout made him freeze. It took him a second to realize that it was coming from another room, and that the vent must be a few feet up ahead. He kept going until he reached it, this one was on the right siding rather than underneath him. He looked through, almost pushing his nose against it, and studied the scene.

It was Heinrich, pacing back and forth in front of someone bound in a chair. The German angrily walked away, making a beeline for a workshop table, and revealed the roughed up person. It was another young man, about the same age as the other child soldiers. Fifteen, sixteen years old. He was struggling to hold his head up, blood bubbling from his lips and his eyes swollen slits on his face.

Clint was trying to see what Heinrich was grabbing, but the very loud sound of something cracking and the metal underneath his body shuddering told him he would find out sooner than he thought. And not in the way he expected to. With a surprised shout that escaped his lips, the ventilation system gave way and the agent dropped down the ten or so feet, hitting the hard ground with a pained grunt.

Stunned, he managed to push himself up on his forearms before a swift kick to his stomach made him fall back down. He rolled to the side, but only managed to get on his back and stare up at the bemused expression of Heinrich Abel. He gave the German a bloodied smile.

"You should really fire your architect," he coughed, bloody flecks painting his cheeks.

"And you should learn to not crawl around in ventilation systems," Heinrich replied, his accent not as thick as Barton expected it to be. He reached down and pulled the agent to his feet by his shirt. There were two remarkably huge men by his side, roughly grabbing Barton's arms and pulling them behind his back.

"Hey," he drawled, trying to fight the coughs. He hawked out a bloody wad of spit, and furrowed his brow. "Take it easy, will ya?" He wanted to fight back, every fiber in his being told him to fight back, but his body willingly sagged into the heavily muscled arms of his captors. When they tried to stand him upright on his own, his left leg gave out from the weight, and he threw his head back in agony. It connected with the nose of one of the heavies, who dropped Barton with a howl and clutched at his face.

Heinrich was backing up a few steps, acting more amused than worried or scared. By this time, Barton was on his knees, arms bound behind him. He was struggling to fall onto his right side, the pain from his left knee too immense to abide any pressure on it. He had been lying on his left side in the vents, trying to look into the room, so it made sense that it was his left knee that struck the ground when he unexpectedly fell.

The man with the broken nose recovered, and his partner hauled Barton to his feet, this time not letting go. The injured one rounded Barton, and raised a meaty fist in order to hit him.

"Abasi," Heinrich called out from where he had moved to lean on the edge of the table. "Not the face. I need those lips to talk. I have a feeling we found our little cockroach."

"Actually, I'm more of a bird person myself-" Barton was silenced by a punch to his gut. The agent let out a gasp, and doubled over, held up by the other guard.

"Taban, let him go."

The man released his hold, and Barton fell to his knees, this time with an outright hysterical laugh. He refused to scream or cry. His face was so scrunched up in pain that the veins in his neck stood out amongst his tanned skin, but he was smiling. At least that was the look he was going for.

Barton took a few shuddering breaths, sweat streaking down his face and cleansing off the dusting of dirt that covered it.

Midnight could not come soon enough.

* * *

**TBC...**

**Please Review.  
**


	7. Chapter 7

**Day Six,**

**Stark Tower**

* * *

It was nearly one in the morning when Steve bounded down the stairs from the gym, preferring them over elevators. On an ordinary day, he would have been fast asleep by eight in the evening, but there were still late night debriefs with Director Fury that had to be dealt with. The Battle of New York had left a massive mess that still had to be cleaned up and taken care of, and the Captain was all too willing to rather sit in midnight meetings than be tortured by nightmares.

As he breezed past the living room area, he caught sight of a shadowy figure settled on one of the two massive couches. He paused and took a few tentative steps toward the man, squinting his eyes to make out the face.

"Hey, Captain Tightpants," Stark called out. "JARVIS? Lights please."

Steve held a hand to his eyes when the AI did as he was asked, and blinked to adjust. "What are you doing?"

Tony held up a glass and shook it. "Enjoying a drink. Care for one?"

The thought of an alcoholic beverage appealed to Rogers more than he thought it would, and he accepted the offer with a slight nod. "It's not like I can get drunk anyway," he replied.

"That's no fun," the genius said with a frown, but poured him a drink nevertheless. He held it out, and Steve accepted it with a murmured thanks.

"C'mon," Tony said with a wave of his hand. He patted the cushion next to him and laughed. "Pop a squat."

With a furrowed brow, Steve took a few steps forward and sat on the opposite end of the couch. "If by 'pop a squat' you mean 'have a seat', then sure."

"See?" Tony slurred slightly, "You're learning."

As he was about to take a sip, Steve paused and glanced towards Stark. "Are you drunk?"

"Hmm?"

"Nothing."

They sat in relative silence, each sipping from their glasses.

"Are you okay?" Steve finally asked. The lack of verbal diarrhea from the other man made him nervous. "You're unusually quiet."

"_Moi_? Peachy keen, Cap." There was a smile plastered on his face, but it was obviously forced. He sat up a little straighter, resting his elbows on his thighs and loosely gripping the glass in between his legs. "Hey, Rogers?"

"Yes?"

There was a long pause, as if whatever was about to come from Stark's mouth was something of significance. It was a rarity, whenever the man actually thought about what he would say before actually speaking.

"How," he stopped, his head tilting to the side as if he was thinking. "How does it feel? Being a man out of time."

Steve felt like he was dealt a death blow to the gut. He hung his head, staring at the floor and trying to ignore the heat of the other man's stare. "It's hard to explain, Stark."

"Try me. I'm a pretty smart guy." There was a hint of amusement, but the levity didn't last long. When the Captain didn't respond, Stark sighed heavily and leaned back in his seat. "The way I see it, Cap, is that you act like we couldn't _possibly_ know how you feel."

The blonde whipped his head over, his eyes narrowing as Stark continued talking. "But what we just went through? The Battle of New York," he said it mockingly, "That was aliens and monsters and the kind of magical power you only read about in tween books. _Not_ something real. _Not_ something tangible. It's the type of thing that happens in futuristic movies. Not today, in the present." Stark sighed heavily and seemed to sink even further in his seat. His eyes were closing, and Steve thought he must've underestimated how much the other already had to drink.

When Stark didn't add anything else, and seemed to be completely out, Steve shook his head and gulped the rest of the burning liquid. He stood and placed the glass on a coaster. He asked JARVIS to dim the lights, which the AI did with a soft, "Certainly, sir."

Just as he was walking out, he was sure he heard Stark mutter, "We're men out of our time too, Cap."

* * *

Natasha tossed and turned in her bed, trying to ignore the lack of warmth beside her. Finally, she sat up with a huff, and glared at the clock. She found herself doing that a lot the past few days. Glaring. She glared at couples, at cereal, and at rooftops. The others had noticed her mood change, but no one had tried to approach her on it.

When the clock ticked another minute away, she took a steady breath and forced herself to relax. It didn't work. She threw the sheets off, and slipped out of the bed, padding over to the door and out into the hallway. It appeared to be empty, and it suited her just fine. As she was making her way down the stairs, elevators being another thing she found herself glaring at, she ran into the Captain.

"Agent Romanoff," he greeted, trying to step to the side and let her make her way down.

She took another step down before pausing and going back up until they were on the same one. She looked him up and down before saying, "It's Natasha. _Just_ Natasha." The underlying meaning was clear. No one else could call her any derivative of her name but one man.

"Okay," he said simply. "I'm Steve."

She gave him a curt nod, and then continued down the stairs without another word. Feeling a little put out, the younger man followed her silently. They strode past the billionaire, completely passed out, and into the kitchen. As Steve settled himself on one of the stools, Natasha went into the fridge and pulled out a bottle of water. Peering over the open door, she cocked a brow at the blonde.

"No, thank you," he replied, clasping his hands on to the counter top.

With a shrug, Natasha closed the door with her foot and took a swing from the bottle. She opted to sit on the counter top, across from the Captain, rather than on the stool next to him. She liked the island putting space between them. Dangling her legs over the side, she sighed and took another long draught of water.

"Something on your mind, Natasha?" Steve called out, his bright eyes focusing on her face.

Natasha wanted to say something rude, wanted to wipe that eager-eyed look off of his face, but she didn't have it in her that night. She shrugged and looked pointedly at her feet. "No more than usual, Rogers."

"Steve," he reminded, but she rolled her eyes in response. He smiled softly to himself regardless.

"Does it have something to do with Agent Barton's absence?"

"What does it matter?" It wasn't really a snap, but she could see the hurt flit across his face.

She could see the larger man take a deep breath, squaring his massive shoulders as if he was physically going into Captain Mode. "As the team leader, I'm required to know when something is wrong with one of my members."

Natasha shook her head, stifling a scoff. "You're pulling that card?"

He shrugged. "It makes me feel good, sometimes."

She looked at him from under her lashes, and finally smiled. "You're not bad, Steve. Not bad at all."

It was like a switch was flipped, and he went from being The Captain to the nervous kid at the school dance. He rubbed the back of his head and blushed. "Uh, thanks."

There was a moment of near silence, only interrupted by the running fridge and steady snoring of Stark in the next room, until Steve cleared his throat and said, "So? What's up?"

"It's nothing," she said, maybe a little too quickly. "I just have a lot on my mind."

When it finally hit Steve that that was the extent of Natasha opening up to anyone other than Barton, he accepted it and nodded. "Okay. Well," he stood up and patted the counter top, "If you ever need a listening ear, you know I'm always around."

She nodded in his direction, but didn't look up. With a final knuckle rap Steve walked away, leaving Natasha alone. She glanced at his empty seat, and sighed. Maybe she should have given the Captain a chance. But there was no way the All-American Boy could understand the thoughts that weighed heavily on her mind, especially the one that centered on a specific man. And a specific kiss.

Natasha shook her head in slight disgust, mostly with herself and becoming the type of person she swore she'd never be. The sappy, romantic type. She was happy to say she wasn't there yet, but with every passing minute, her female brain would pinpoint that one moment against the elevator and she wanted to evaluate every piece of it. She could almost hear her subconscious voice turning high-pitched and girly and debating whether or not she should call him or not.

She rubbed her forehead and gently pushed herself off the counter. Maybe it was time for another round of attempted sleep. She threw her now empty bottle of water in the recycling bin and exited the kitchen. She rolled her eyes again towards the passed out Stark, and started to make her way up the stairs.

By the time she entered her bedroom, exhaustion was weighing down her bones and she wanted nothing more than to pass out in her massive, luxurious bed. She crawled in and pulled a pillow underneath her head, accidentally pulling a few strands of hair that tangled themselves around her fingers. With a small wince, she took a deep breath and settled.

However, when she closed her eyes all she could see were the multi-colored, textured orbs of her partner. With a loud groan, she sat up in bed and glared at the ceiling. Or maybe it was the rooftop. She threw herself onto her back, and asked aloud, "JARVIS, what's the time?"

"It is now 1:36 in the morning, Agent Romanoff."

"What's the time difference?" She knew she didn't have to specify between what which two countries. JARVIS was brilliant in that way.

"Seven hours."

She sat up and rested her weight on her elbows. "So he'll be awake."

"More than likely, Agent Romanoff."

There was a moment of silence before the AI added, "Would you like me to ring him for you?"

She hesitated before nodding. "Yes."

"It went straight to voice mail," he replied almost immediately.

Natasha frowned and sat up all the way. "It shouldn't have. Try it again."

"I'm sorry, Agent Romanoff-"

"I got it," she cut off the AI. Furrowing her brow, she found herself wide awake and more than a little worried. Not answering his phone was one thing, but turning it off completely was another. He was only over there for a surveillance operation. Nothing should have gone wrong, if it did. And if it did, they wouldn't know until after midnight, and that was nearly a full day away for them.

She rushed out of the bed and tugged on a pair of jeans. Pulling on a pair of worn shoes, she grabbed a jacket and was out the door. She nearly flew down the stairs, breezing past Stark who was now being lovingly covered with a blanket by Pepper, and into the garage.

Natasha was nearly halfway to where she knew the Helicarrier was currently stationed on land, before she asked JARVIS to call Director Fury and alert him to her oncoming presence.

"Certainly," he said in his cordial manner.

As she waited for JARVIS to let her know what Fury had said, if anything, she took stock of her fraying mind as her red locks whipped past her face.

Barton was overseas, in Somalia.

He was on a simple surveillance operation.

He wasn't answering his phone, and there was no good reason or excuse for it to be off.

He was a _really_ good kisser.

As soon as she hit a red light, she let out a frustrated growl and hit her head on the steering wheel. Without a doubt, she knew it was going to be a very long day, and they wouldn't know if anything was truly wrong with Clint until much later.

Midnight could not come soon enough.

* * *

**TBC...**

**Please Review.  
**


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